Until my colours be displayed in France.

This is thy final answer. So be gone.

DUC DE LORRAINE

It is not that, nor any English brave,

Afflicts me so, as doth his poisoned view:

That is most false, should most of all be true. Exit

KING EDWARD

Now, lords, our fleeting barque is under sail,

Our gage is thrown, and war is soon begun,

But not so quickly brought unto an end.

Enter Sir William Montague

But wherefore comes Sir William Montague?

(To Montague) How stands the league between the Scot and us?

MONTAGUE

Cracked and dissevered, my renowned lord.

The treacherous King no sooner was informed

Of your withdrawing of your army back

But straight, forgetting of his former oath,

He made invasion on the bordering towns.

Berwick is won, Newcastle spoiled and lost,

And now the tyrant hath begirt with siege

The Castle of Roxburgh, where, enclosed,

The Countess Salisbury is like to perish.

KING EDWARD (to Warwick)

That is thy daughter, Warwick, is it not?

Whose husband hath in Bretagne served so long

About the planting of Lord Montfort there?

EARL OF WARWICK It is, my lord.

KING EDWARD

Ignoble David, hast thou none to grieve

But seely ladies with thy threat’ning arms?

But I will make you shrink your snaily horns.

(To Audley) First, therefore, Audley, this shall be thy charge:

Go levy footmen for our wars in France.

(To the Prince of Wales) And, Ned, take muster of our men-at-arms.

In every shire elect a several band.

Let them be soldiers of a lusty spirit,

Such as dread nothing but dishonour’s blot.

Be wary therefore, since we do commence

A famous war, and with so mighty a nation.

(To Derby) Derby, be thou ambassador for us

Unto our father-in-law, the Earl of Hainault.

Make him acquainted with our enterprise,

And likewise will him, with our own allies

That are in Flanders, to solicit, too,

The Emperor of Almagne in our name.

Myself, whilst you are jointly thus employed,

Will, with these forces that I have at hand,

March and once more repulse the traitorous Scot.

But sirs, be resolute. We shall have wars

On every side. (To the Prince of Wales) And, Ned, thou must begin

Now to forget thy study and thy books,

And ure thy shoulders to an armour’s weight.

PRINCE OF WALES

As cheerful sounding to my youthful spleen

This tumult is of war’s increasing broils,

As at the coronation of a king

The joyful clamours of the people are

When ‘Ave Caesar’ they pronounce aloud.

Within this school of honour I shall learn

Either to sacrifice my foes to death,

Or, in a rightful quarrel, spend my breath.

Then cheerfully forward, each a several way.

In great affairs ’tis naught to use delay. Exeunt

Sc. 2 Enter the Countess of Salisbury, above

COUNTESS OF SALISBURY

Alas, how much in vain my poor eyes gaze

For succour that my sovereign should send.

Ah, cousin Montague, I fear thou wants

The lively spirit sharply to solicit

With vehement suit the King in my behalf.

Thou dost not tell him what a grief it is

To be the scornful captive to a Scot,

Either to be wooed with broad untuned oaths,

Or forced by rough insulting barbarism.

Thou dost not tell him, if he here prevail,

How much they will deride us in the North,

And in their vile, uncivil, skipping jigs

Bray forth their conquest and our overthrow

Even in the barren, bleak and fruitless air—

Enter below David King of Scotland and Sir William Douglas with ⌈soldiers, meeting⌉ the Due de Lorraine

(Aside) I must withdraw. The everlasting foe

Comes to the wall. I’ll closely step aside

And list their babble, blunt and full of pride.

The Countess withdraws

KING OF SCOTLAND

My lord of Lorraine, to our brother of France

Commend us as the man in Christendom

That we most reverence and entirely love.

Touching your embassage, return and say

That we with England will not enter parley,

Nor never make fair weather, or take truce,

But burn their neighbour towns, and so persist

With eager roads beyond their city York;

And never shall our bonny riders rest,

Nor rusting canker have the time to eat

Their light-borne snaffle, nor their nimble spur,

Nor lay aside their jacks of gimmaled mail,

Nor hang their staves of grained Scottish ash

In peaceful wise upon their city walls,

Nor from their buttoned tawny leathern belts

Dismiss their biting whinyards, till your King

Cry out, ‘Enough! Spare England now for pity!’

Farewell, and tell him that you leave us here,

Before this castle; say you came from us

Even when we had that yielded to our hands.

DUC DE LORRAINE